


sacred heart convent

by iosaturnalia



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Cunnilingus, D/s elements, Humiliation, dick stepping, mild petplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 09:45:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6074581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iosaturnalia/pseuds/iosaturnalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a potential beginning to a terrible, terrible partnership.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sacred heart convent

**Author's Note:**

> its too hard writing smut of a character named BURGERPANTS  
> im gonna call him curio or something equally stupid n cute if i ever write this kind of shit again

Burgerpants considers himself reasonable; he has accepted he is doomed to retail, he doesn’t hold his head too high when he clocks out, and he speaks as kindly to customers as his script will allow him.

However. He possesses limits, the first of which are tested when a unrecognizable monster strolls up to the checkout counter. It is noteworthy that he doesn’t recognize him, because the underground is rather small. It’s not difficult to keep track of who’s who. And this one certainly stands out; Enough so that it triggers a telltale trickle of sweat on the backside of Burgerpant’s head.

“Welcome to the MTT-Brand Burger Emporium, home of the Glamburger,” he says, eyeing the monster’s chassis. He’s something of a looker. “Sparkle up your day.”

The monster- who is tall, and on closer look, made of metal- stares at him uncomprehendingly. He detects a bit of disgust.

“Don’t tell me you make that face at _every_ customer,” says the robot-monster-thing, his brow furrowed. “That does- the opposite of a good thing for our brand, darling. It’s revolting.”

And then it settles on Burgerpants, a bit like a cold egg shattering on the top of his head. It’s his boss, except it can’t be—Mettaton had always spoken of an eventual humanoid form, but this one is simultaneously voluptuous and unsettling, sleek and sensual.  

“Boss,” he says. “Is that you?”

“No, it’s another robot who runs the only real franchise in the underground. Yes, of course it’s me, you imbecile.” Mettaton’s face is half obscured by a sheet of black silicone hair, and his waist- his waist is tiny, an icy crystalline container curved around a glowing heart. Burgerpants rips his eyes away.

“Sorry, boss,” he grits. “How can I help you today?”

“Haven’t you heard?” he says. “We’ve been freed by that sweet human! Things are a-changing for this franchise. By which I mean costumes, new products, new advertising- the whole brouhaha, you now. As the face of our retail department-” Here, Burgerpants tries desperately not to cringe- “You are going to have to undergo a major makeover to be palatable to human audiences. We only have a few weeks before we emigrate to the above world!”

“Sounds great,” says Burgerpants, feeling out-of-body. He considers quitting- times are changing, as Mettaton said, and he could find a better job and better boss in no time above ground- but if he stays till the end of his contract, another two months, he can leave with a bonus. Or a managerial position, which would be… well, he’s not sure if Mettaton would be less harsh, but perhaps more tolerable.

“I’ll be seeing you,” Mettaton says. “In five days, in fact. For the conceptual dress-up. In my office.”

Burgerpants makes a sour face, but nods.

“Oh, and Burgerpants?” Mettaton adds, as he draws away from the counter. He grins, something between teasing and terrifying. “I hope you don’t ogle all your customers like that. It simply doesn’t do well for our image to have a pervert at the register!”

With that he walks off, whistling tunelessly. Burgerpants shudders with embarrassment through the rest of his shift, eventually clocking out to say hi to NiceCream.

“Sorry, I’m all out of stock,” NiceCream says apologetically. He pets the top of his stand. “Today was one heck of a day. We’re free, you hear?”

“It’s fine,” says Burgerpants. “I wasn’t hungry, I just thought I’d stop by. And so I heard. From Mettaton.”

“He has a new form, I saw on TV,” laughs NiceCream. “It’s a little stunning! Very glamorous, for the underground.”

“Stunning like a punch to the face.”

“You still going to be working for him?”

Burgerpants shrugs, digging his hands into his jacket pockets. “I’m on a contract.”

NiceCream eyes him in a way that makes Burgerpant’s skin crawl. “Is that the only reason?” he asks knowingly. His smile resembles Mettaton’s for the briefest moment. “You used to like Mettaton a whole lot, I remember. When you first came to interview…”

“I was stupid then!”

“Right,” says NiceCream, leaning on his stand. “Well, that didn’t really stop you from getting the rectangle-kit, did it?”

“I told you that in confidence,” says Burgerpants. “It was only once, and it didn’t even work.”

“Well, now that his form’s more amenable to the eye- one wonders.”

“I don’t wonder,” insists Burgerpants. “I stay away from wondering.”

“Alright, BP,” he laughs. He reaches out and scruffs up the top of Burgerpant’s head, a friendly warmth that embarrasses Burgerpants in its implication. How humiliating, that his mild crush of the last few years is also privy to his attraction to his evil boss. “I’ll text you later.”

Burgerpants trudges home after that, reviewing his history with the MTT-brand. First there was Naptsablook’s cousin that made the cutesy indie music that he’d found online. Endearing. Then there was Mettaton proper, glorious and charming and also the hegemon of Underground TV. Burgerpants had acquired a juvenile crush, an admiration for his stage presence, a willingness to buy into the amicable persona that was everywhere. Then there was being hired by the MTT-brand and the stark realization that- one, he really wasn’t cut out for retail, but two, that Mettaton was a grade-A asshole, a bona fide demon. Or not. Burgerpants knows demons, and likes them well enough. Mettaton is another level.

He unlocks the door to his house, washes his hands, and gets out the chips to mindlessly eat at his computer.

Yet, Mettaton still possessed those intriguing qualities even after showing Burgerpants his true colors. And now he had been deigned with this terrible, shiny new body, one that translates his lascivious mannerisms all the better. And Burgerpants will be the one stalwartly refusing night after night to jerk off to it before giving in distressingly. He reasons that this was probably Mettaton’s plan all along. Another ploy to get on his nerves, to taunt him.

He kneads his paws into his thighs anxiously. He isn’t sure what the dress-up will hold, but he doubts it’ll be favorable to him. But he’s also shamefully excited. A chance to study that new body.

He jerks off later, the chip dust still on his paws, and it makes a mess of his fur and dick. Worst of all, at the critical moment, his mind wondered (something he had decided he didn’t do) to the softness of Mettaton’s behind, the glint of his lips wrapped around-

The moral is that wondering is a bad decision.

**

On the integral day he fits himself into his uniform early in the morning, and slinks towards the resort like a felon to his noose. NiceCream isn’t out yet. Burgerpants feels a flash of envy. Getting to decide when and where you want to work- a relative freedom he can’t fathom.

The resort is empty when he clocks in. This is normal. Mettaton had assigned him the longest hours, starting the earliest and ending the latest, because the Emporium was “a critical branch of the MTT-brand.” This is Mettaton speak for “I love to torture you in the ways that I am able to.” Burgerpants had only relented because it qualified him as full-time, granting him healthcare and whatnot. Plus, his wages weren’t suffering for it.

He’s only barely setting up the displays at the foot of the counter when Mettaton arrives, this time through the employee entrance.

“You’re early, boss,” he says, avoiding eye contact from his squat on the floor. That’s always the con to getting off to someone. Eye contact becomes so much more tenuous.

“Look at me when you speak,” Mettaton sighs. “I can’t stand employees that mutter to themselves.”

Burgerpants looks up at him. Mettaton’s legs are built like aerodynamic trees; thick and smooth and grounded. “You’re early, boss.”

Mettaton flashes him a slow smile, a tight gleaming triangle. “I want an early start to the beautification of my favorite employee,” he explains.

“Who’s covering for me?”

“Bratty and Catty agreed for the day. Now hurry up, before they arrive, unless you want them to see you again.”

“Yes, boss,” Burgerpants says quickly, shoving the display door shut. He has no want to see Bratty and Catty ever again- the last time, too traumatizing. Much of that was caused by Mettaton.

He stands up and follows Mettaton to his office, and regrettably Mettaton has the _perfect_ behind- equally as smooth as his legs, although rounded and heavy and- he know this can’t be real, as this new body appears to be constructed out of metal- jiggling the slightest bit on the upturn of every step.

He knows the royal scientist is a bit of a weirdo, what with all the hentai she collects, but to dutifully craft that- He can admire that much.

When they finally get to the office Burgerpants slides into the chair opposite Mettaton’s, a large wooden desk separating them. He is struck by the fear that perhaps Mettaton will whip out the boombox again, but Mettaton makes no such movement, instead leaning back into his chair with his delicate fingers steepled in front of his mouth.

“Now, I’ve been doing my research into the human world since the barrier’s opened up. What they do and don’t like. Especially with cats.”

Burgerpants bristles. “I’m not a cat, I’m a feline-natured monster.”

“Yes, well, it’s all the same to them up there,” says Mettaton, waving his hand dismissively. “Now, my research has paid off. I’ve managed to get my hands on a plethora of goods that humans seem to love. Look at this.”

He pulls out a number of papers and posters, and Burgerpants blanches. Cats- kittens- tiny and fluffy and probably weighing about a coin’s worth, with bows and frilly things decorating their necks, tails, paws. Kittens cuddling. One cat holding on precariously to a tree branch, with a caption reading “Hang In There!”

“Oh,” says Burgerpants. “Oh, no.”

Mettaton makes a happy face at the last poster, not looking up.“Nonsense. You’ll look adorable!” He clasps his hands together delightedly. “And that’s saying something.”

“But they’re naked,” he bemoans. “They’re naked and babies and cats. I’m a grown monster. No one will like it.”

“You’re so down on yourself.”

Very rich. “I just don’t see the value in it.”

Mettaton frowns and juts out his lower lip. “That’s why I’m the boss and you’re the lowly employee, Burgerpants. I have the good ideas, and you follow them.” He shakes his head a little, making the hair covering his right eye shift to reveal open wiring and otherwise complex machinery, before settling back over. “Though if you really have an objection, I won’t insist that you get naked. Who knows what you’re compensating for? I don’t think anyone wants to see that. ”

Burgerpants feels warm around the edges at the insinuation. “I’m not scared of being naked,” he says.

Mettaton looks at him, blank-faced, deeply searching. He realizes this is an awkward thing to confess to one’s boss, especially a boss that ritually incites his sexual repression.

But Mettaton seems to find what he’s looking for, and taps a finger dangerously against his desk. “Interesting,” he drawls. “So then would you try out the outfit?”

“What is it?”

Mettaton procures a soft pink ribbon from under his desk. It’s reasonably thick, and lace decorates the front. “Just this, darling!” he says gleefully. “It’s a collar!”

Burgerpants tries to collect his calm. “Only- I’ll only take off my shirt,” he amends.

Mettaton shrugs, still smiling and expectant. This is the ultimate act of masochism, Burgerpants decides as his struggles to pull the collar over his head. What can be gained from exposing his naked body to a boss that has historically ridiculed him, he doesn’t know. He finally sets the shirt on the chair, glancing furtively at the ribbon clenched in Mettaton’s hand. He clears his throat.

“Oh, just come over here, darling,” Mettaton breezes. He gestures to the space beside him. Burgerpants makes his way around and reaches out his hand, but Mettaton gently slaps it away. “Let me,” he says.

Burgerpants is relatively assured by now that this is a fever dream. He leans forward, exposing his neck, but Mettaton clucks and pushes down on his shoulder. “Just get on your knees, it’s easier that way.”

He does as is told, realizing a hair too late that he’s nestled between Mettaton’s sculpted black legs in this position. They’re warm, and hum gently with the whirring of machinery deep within. If he dare looks forward- which he doesn’t- he’ll be making eye contact with his muted reflection in Mettaton’s navel.

Mettaton gently places the ribbon at his nape, wrapping it around and fiddling with the front until the ideal bow is attained.

“If you could see yourself,” Mettaton coos. “Oh, I’m going to die, it’s so cute.”

He reaches one hand into Burgerpants’ scalp, pushing his head back so his face is facing Mettaton more directly. But Mettaton’s fingers dig into the space behind his ears, a pleasurable pressure, and his ear flicks.

“Ohhh,” goes Mettaton, and he scritches his behind-ear more, letting his hand travel down to the underside of Burgerpants’ chin and scratching there too. Burgerpants has the urge to shut his eyes, lean forward and press into Mettaton’s hand.  “You like that, don’t you! You really are a cat!”

“Feline-natured,” says Burgerpants hoarsely. His tail is waving slowly behind him, despite his efforts otherwise.

“If you say so,” Mettaton snickers. “Do you make a habit of kneading other people’s legs, though?”

To his horror, Burgerpants has indeed been kneading his paws into Mettaton’s thighs. “Um,” he starts.

“I suppose you can’t help it,” Mettaton continues, quietly. He presses his nails into Burgerpants’ jowl. It’s surreal, for a moment. Underground’s biggest superstar, in his most attractive form, touching and petting him, Burgerpants, an virtual indentured servant whose diet subsists of Mountain dew and Fritos. “You’ve probably never even been touched like this before, hm?”

He suddenly feels pressure on his front, prodding and undulating, and it’s Mettaton’s front sole pressing down on the erection he’s apparently been sporting. It seems to catch up to him how humiliating this situation is- laid down in front of Mettaton, needily pawing at him and pressing into his hands- and the thought makes his entire body throb in twin waves of shame and incomprehensible arousal.

“Even in my old form, I wasn’t blind, dear,” Mettaton murmurs. He trails the tip of his stiletto down the line of Burgerpants’ thigh. “You hate to adore me, you adore to hate me. What a big bundle of confusing that emotions that is for a poor, unsuspecting monster like you.”

He tucks the end of his pinky on his free hand into his mouth, admiring the image of Burgerpants in front of him. “What do you say? How about giving in to desire? I’m doing you a big favor, by the way. Offering at all. Not that anyone would believe you if you said so…”

“I wouldn’t tell,” Burgerpants says. He did not mean to say it; it came out unbidden. But he can’t deny that- despite his loathing for Mettaton- Mettaton is attractive and beastly. Sleeping with him even on one occasion would usually be an un-manifested fantasy, but here he is, right now, grinning salaciously and shifting apart his legs, inviting and warm and mocking.

“I wouldn’t either,” Mettaton says lowly. “After all, it’s my first time too. I’ve only recently gotten to understand these feelings, much less have a body equipped to pursue the more untoward desires. Alphys was very thorough, you see.”

And here he spreads his legs even further, and Burgerpants fears his head might implode. Subpar, distasteful pornography online is one thing, and this- this is another. He’s beginning to hate Alphys. Between Mettaton’s legs is at first what appears solely to be the swell of a mons pubis, but from beneath two small folds make themselves apparent, growing out of the latex.

“I don’t want it out all the time,” scoffs Mettaton as Burgerpants gawks. “So I can retract it at will. It’s very clever, built into the form. Alphys is a genius.” He reaches down and places a finger on each fold, only to gently pull them away from each other. Burgerpants has seen enough porn to know the parts- there’s a bud near the top, and a slick opening, both pleasing to the eye, but-

“What’s-”

“Processed oil,” says Mettaton impatiently. He dips his own finger against his clitoris and gives a small shiver as it slips lightly into him. “Good lubricant, easy clean-up. But let’s skip the small-talk.” He fixes a lucid stare at Burgerpants. “Are you interested?”

“Yes,” says Burgerpants, his dick pressing against the fly of his jeans. He can’t imagine how to convey this anymore fervently.

Mettaton smiles wide and lifts his shoe, placing the heel of it on Burgerpants’ shoulder. It’s a bubblegum pink, made out of patent leather. “Down,” he says, when Burgerpants doesn’t immediately shift. He raises an eyebrow. “What, you think I’m going to let you touch my expensive goods on first try? You’re starting somewhere a little less high-risk.”

Burgerpants lowers his head, leveling with Mettaton’s other shoe. “Erm,” he says, confused.

“Am I not being crystal clear?” Mettaton says gently. “My shoes, darling.”

Oh. _Oh_. Burgerpants is no stranger to what is considered humiliating, and what is considered downright subservient. But he doesn’t deny a willingness to perform, and tentatively licks the tip of his boot. They taste like nothing, but the view; looking up and seeing Mettaton splayed above him, the grandeur of his limbs, the smug set of his mouth- it is embarrassing and unbelievably arousing, and his crotch throbs.

“I’m going to be taking pictures,” Mettaton announces, getting out his phone. He looks over his phone, however, tilting his head at Burgerpants, who realizes this is more of a question than a declaration. He frowns and nods imperceptibly, going back to placing his tongue further up on the shoe as the slew of camera shutters go off.

“So cute,” he sighs. “Okay, that’s enough. Get up.”

Burgerpants stands, trying to overcome to embarrassment of pitching an unsightly tent in front of his boss. Mettaton’s eyes flick to his buckle long enough that he knows this means to undress, and he does, fumbling with the fly.

“Your dick is precious,” Mettaton says once it’s, well, out. He reaches a hand out and pumps it once, twice and Burgerpants staggers towards him. The pressure is just right. “A bit on the smaller side, but I think it gives it charm, no?”

 He releases his grip, and nods downwards. Burgerpants sinks back to his knees.

“Now you can eat me out,” he says. “I’m not too sure about the technicalities of it, but I think it’s simple enough that you can pick up quickly.” He raises his index to his eye, smiling widely. “And if you do a good job, I’ll do this.”

He presses the sole of his shoe into Burgerpants’ crotch again, this time angling such that his cock presses back into his abdomen. Burgerpants cannot help it when he presses back on instinct, searching for friction, but Mettaton pulls away just as quickly.

“Only if you do a good job,” he explains, exasperated. “God, why do I have to repeat everything?” He shifts open his legs, and it smells musky and sweet.

Burgerpants considers his last moments being a stranger to this taste. Mettaton eyes him oddly, though a smile passes through his face.

“What,” says Burgerpants, defensive.

Mettaton giggles, a hand flying to cover his glaring teeth. “A pussycat to lick my-”

 Burgerpants hurriedly presses forward and licks a stripe up its length to stop that sentence in its tracks. This works: Mettaton exclaims a soft “Oh!” and pushes towards him. “I forgot- you have that- tongue!”

Burgerpants continues, unsure as to if this is praise or an honest exclamation. There’s actually a lot beneath his mouth. Primarily soft, smooth folds, and a satiny inside with more give. He chooses to focus his attention briefly on the bud he had seen earlier, and this makes Mettaton jerk excitedly towards him, reaching out a hand to tilt his face back again.

“I want you to look at me,” Mettaton croons. Burgerpants abides, watching Mettaton watch him. His gaze is somewhat more muted now, and he’s biting the edge of his bottom lip. It’s thrilling and satisfying to lay beneath him, and Burgerpants begins to lick and suck with more fervor, hoping to see Mettaton’s face twitch.

“Oh, good,” goes Mettaton finally, a moan hugging his words. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Burgerpants jaw begins to ache, the tiniest bit, but it is all worth it when he feels pressure rubbing up against his front yet again. It’s calculated and chancy, and he hisses into Mettaton’s cunt at the sensation as it teeters treacherously between pain and pleasure.

“You like it?” Mettaton asks, laughing breathily. “You like eating me out, don’t you?”

Burgerpants feels himself moans in affirmative, thrusting up against Mettaton’s shoe. At this point, with the head of his dick pressed firmly into the bottom of a stiletto, he’d admit to anything, though he still feels sweltering embarrassment.

“You like me stepping on your tiny dick?” Mettaton continues, elated. “Huh, Burgerpants? You like that?”

“Yes,” Burgerpants gasps into his crotch. “Yes- I like- Fuck-” he stutters, as he approaches orgasm. Mettaton swiftly pulls his foot away, clicking his tongue.

“Don’t be a quickshot, you brute,” he chastises. He cups his hands around Burgerpants’ head, pressing him further into his pussy. Burgerpants wants to whimper, but instead focuses on returning to his previous pace.

“You’re a sight,” Mettaton murmurs, smiling. “Begging for a chance to eat me out. Let me see how long that tongue is.”

Burgerpants flushes with shame and sticks his tongue as far into Mettaton as he possibly can. Mettaton, in turn, clenches somehow around him, light and purposeful. He growls into it.

Mettaton grows louder and louder as Burgerpants alternates between thrusting in and sucking frantically at his clitoris, loud enough that Burgerpants worries that the sound will travel down the hall outside, where other employees will start clocking in. But Mettaton seems to have no qualms to the idea, and lends his hand down to where Burgerpants’ mouth is connected to him.

At first his hand loiters at the junction of his thigh, but at a particular upstroke one of his fingers teases the edge of Burgerpants’ mouth; he understands the cue, ashamedly, and lightens the pace to open his mouth wider as Mettaton slips one in, trailing over the flat of his tongue, pulling out and dragging against the bottom of his lip.

“You’re so obedient,” Mettaton purrs, momentarily inserting another finger. He draws them both out, watching Burgerpants’ mouth wrapped around them. “It’s a little pitiful.”

Burgerpants looks away, chagrined that all that did was make him harder. Mettaton hooks his free leg behind him, using the back of his calf to pull Burgerpants forward again while again spreading himself with the two afore-used fingers. “Back to business, sweetheart.”

He does so, although this time Mettaton’s fingers explore the area as well, padding his clit, thrusting in beside his tongue, occasionally caging it within- well. By now Mettaton is much wetter than before, and it’s beginning to seep into the chair, into Burgerpants’ chin.

Suddenly, Mettaton begins to tense, and the hand grasping his head tightens and shoves him closer. The result is brief, near suffocation as Mettaton lurches and moans, the loudest yet. Burgerpants feels a sudden jittering pain on his tongue. It’s mild and startling, and makes his mouth numb, though he can feel a final spurt of oil from Mettaton leak and stain against him.

“That was nice,” notes Mettaton when he finally releases his grip. His bleary voice sounds unrefined, echoey and fluctuating and tinny. As if autotune hasn’t quite kicked in. “I hope the electrical shocks weren’t too, ahem, shocking. I forgot that happened.”

Burgerpants stretches his mouth and tongue, testing out the returned sensation. All he feels is the ache of overuse. “I’m fine. But…” He glances down at his- now leaking- erection.

Mettaton blinks a few times, coming back into consciousness completely. His eyes focus in on the point of contention. He smiles. “Well, you did me make come, although not without my help. Not that that surprises me, per se. I suppose…”

Burgerpants cracks his neck, self-conscious as he stands up- that’s what he hopes he’s meant to do.

“Come here,” Mettaton practically sings, pulling Burgerpants forward, making their knees knock as he falls into straddling the other’s lap. “I feel positively wretched. You did all that work, and yet you’re still unsatisfied!”

Burgerpants is achingly hard, and with Mettaton touching the small of his back, tugging on the tip of his tail, slipping a finger between the collar and the nape of his neck, he worries he won’t last long enough to proclaim endurance.

“You want me to touch you?” Mettaton asks, grinning maniacally, his eyes ice picks. He dips a gloved hand to just barely cup Burgerpants’ cock. “Do you think you deserve it?”

Burgerpants juts his hips forward, trying to follow the hand as it departs. Mettaton snaps forward, in play of an animal, and laughs as Burgerpants squeaks. “You have to answer me, you stupid kitten.”

“Please,” says Burgerpants.

Mettaton blows out his lips. “It’s a yes-or-no, dear,” he says wryly, but begins to stroke him unbearably slowly anyways. Burgerpants’ breath comes out ragged, and he looks rapidly up and down at the length of Mettaton- his lidded eyes, the plush of his lips, the flare outward beneath the fragile waist, but most importantly his morbid hunger, reflected in his steely stare and the tug of his hand.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Mettaton asks quietly, simpering and dangerous. Burgerpants cannot help nodding helplessly. “The logistics of it are… well. I’m just curious about how I taste, really. Be a doll?”

He lets his tongue loll out his mouth, and Mettaton comes and- presses his tongue against it, deliberate and savoring. The movement is slow, and disgusting, and somehow the most obscene thing that’s been done in this office. He feels at Mettaton’s complete scornful mercy. The thought of it is enough to burn first in the back of his throat, and then at the base of his naval.

“I’m-” he chokes, suddenly panicking that just maybe Mettaton wouldn’t love a necklace for his new body. But Mettaton is one step ahead of him, and cups his palm over the head as Burgerpants comes, strain searing through his body.

“Messy,” notes Mettaton, once Burgerpants is done and has opened his eyes. He cleans his hand off with a tissue laying nearby, tossing (and missing) it towards the trashcan.

Burgerpants tries to balance himself on his haunches, but now his muscles feel shaky and weak. He slips forward, chest to chest with Mettaton, and is too muzzy to analyze the potential whiplash to this action.

But Mettaton seems not to mind, humming thoughtlessly and smoothing one hand down his back, then gently holding his tail between two fingers. His tail is generally touchy territory, but Burgerpants doesn’t mind this one time. It’s gone back to flicking slowly back and forth.

“You like that,” Mettaton states, more than asks.

“My tail?” he scoffs. “Not really-”

Mettaton yanks him, and he yowls, his voice jumping an octave.

“Let me finish,” says Mettaton, frowning.

“Don’t use it as a handle!”

“Whatever, touchy. I meant that you like being stepped on, huh? And I don’t mean just literally. Although that’s true too.”

Burgerpants stiffens. “I don’t-”

“Oh, don’t get bashful now.” Mettaton goes back to stroking his back. “It scratches an itch for you, doesn’t it? I had a feeling.” He grins slightly. “It scratches an itch for me too, although in a different direction.”

Burgerpants doesn’t know what to say to this, and pushes back to stand up, but Mettaton clutches him suddenly. “Don’t go! You only just started…”

“Started what?” he asks, looking confusedly between them, to see if he’s kneading again. But Mettaton grins at him mysteriously, exultantly, and he feels the rumbling before he hears it. He ducks his head, embarrassed, again. He hadn’t realized earlier, because Mettaton’s body hums too, but the frequencies were now different enough to hear.

Mettaton cackles softly. “Purring. You are _such_ a cat.”

**Author's Note:**

> the title is a reference to the school marie lazarre attends as a child in "love medicine" by louise erdrich. i drew some of the writing style from that to here. marie's character reminds me a lot of mtt, its a subversive title to use on nsfw content of literal monsters, and its referential to mtt's more vulnerable anatomy. 
> 
> maybe i should care less about titles and more about my dignity, which fried up the moment i began writing this


End file.
